


The King's Storymaker

by Aegir



Category: Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio), The Kingmaker
Genre: Alternate History, Humour, Lots of mentions of historical characters who are too busy to appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegir/pseuds/Aegir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to the Big Finish Audio ‘The Kingmaker’.  Will hadn’t planned on getting stranded in the fifteenth century, but at least there are always old stories to tell.  As long as the ending stays the same….</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Storymaker

**Author's Note:**

> If you are not familiar with ‘The Kingmaker’ audio this will probably make very little sense, but the starting point is that William Shakespeare has just been mistaken for Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth….

If there was one thing Will had learned during a happily spent youth as a poacher it was that while climbing trees might solve an immediate problem you needed a plan for getting down without as good as handing yourself to whoever you had gone up there to avoid in the first place. Fortunately he had just the ticket inside his tunic.

Throwing the crown of England into the nearest bush was guaranteed to get people’s attention away from the tree. And even with only one usable arm he was spry enough to make it to the nearest ditch before anyone managed to work out the crown was only a gold paint over wood affair that he’d ended up clutching after that row between the Richards on the stage of the Globe. Sharing the ditch with several moorhens and a stray goat until the winning side had crowned a rather unimpressive looking man with the wooden circlet and decided which of the unrecognisable corpses that littered the field they were going to exhibit to prove they’d won was a test of endurance, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

It didn’t really sink in. Not until he’d walked into the nearest town and heard men loudly toasting Good King Henry VII while a lanky bloke with straw in his hair hastily painted over the sign of the King’s Head. Even then he had to ask the name of the town, but it was Market Bosworth alright. Or rather all wrong.

He didn’t panic. Not then. OK he was in a century before he should have been born with no access this time to the Doctor’s Magic Cabinet, but he’d walked into London without a lot in his favour before and come out alright. He just needed to find some rich nobs’ horses to hold and the biggest theatre in town, preferably both together. There was bound to be a welcome for a man who could turn old plays into new. Or lead into gold as he preferred to think of it.

It was finding out there was neither a theatre in London nor a demand for new plays that made him panic. Without the Magic Cabinet he couldn’t risk walking in on the brand new king and declaring himself a soothsayer who could tell of the future, not that that had worked out very well even with the Cabinet. Panicking didn’t help either. He was still stuck without any money in an age so barbaric they hadn’t even invented the theatre yet.

He stayed stuck like that for about six months, drinking away what he managed to make from holding horses, when the same huge hollow knight that had nearly killed him at Bosworth (or another so like it there was no telling the difference) chased a screaming man down the street shouting something about a revised edition being overdue. Will did exactly what any sane person in his position would do, which is to say he ran away, unfortunately panic cut in again and he ran in the same direction as the screaming man. Still more unfortunately somewhere along the way they separated and the hollow knight started chasing him. Completely losing his head Will dashed out along an old wooden jetty sticking out into the Thames, realising this was a dead end at just the same time as the hollow knight crashed through the rotten planking and became stuck in the tidal mud at the edge of the river, where it stayed until a little man in a light coloured coat walked up and stuck it in the back of the neck with what looked a bit like a very short lance wrapped in black cloth with a curved red wooden handle, whereupon it fell silent and Will let the little man buy him a whole lot of drinks to calm his nerves.

He’d realised from the start that without royal protection telling people he was from the future wasn’t a good idea if he didn’t want to get hanged as a witch. But the little man hadn’t seemed at all surprised by the hollow knight, and anyway Will badly wanted someone to complain at, so he ended up telling the little man everything.

“I just wanted to get proof,” he said. (Or slurred in fact) “All that stuff the Doctor was talking about, saying that people would be saying Richard didn’t kill the kids in another four hundred years, all because of old More not doing his research. Well, I thought, when I found the Doctor’s magic box, what better way to get the proof than to go back. Of course he killed them. I went there to prove it.

“Wasn’t any trouble getting in to see him, even though I didn’t rightly know where I’d landed. Thought it best to move that Cabinet of his, but it’s not like I really understood how to work it. Anyway soon as I got in I was dragged off to The Tower and they were measuring the thumb screws while the usurper asked me a lot of questions about the Doctor.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Everything I knew and a fair bit I made up. Well, wouldn’t you? Funny thing was everyone acted like I’d been there before. That nasty twerp Tyrell kept saying stuff like ‘Bit of a come down for the king’s high and mighty advisor.’ So when they kicked me out the Tower one day I went straight back to where I’d put the Cabinet and pushed a few more buttons.”

“I’m amazed that worked,” the little man said.

“Well, maybe it was the poetry. I’d heard the Doctor talking to his Cabinet, so I tried saying a sonnet to it. One of my own, if I do say so. I think the Cabinet liked it. It took me back a couple of years and I walked in and announced myself as a great sage who knew the future. Well, that bit was easy, the rest not so much.”

“So why did you try and convince Richard to do murder? Wouldn’t the blood have been on your hands as well?”

“He did it anyway. I know he did it. I just wanted it to be public, beyond any doubt. He had me tortured. Only fair I should make sure no clever clogs in the future could try and whitewash him.”

“Ah, the vicious circle. Torture and hate breed more torture and hate. Of course time travel adds the extra winkle of being punished for acts you haven’t yet committed.”

Will was too drunk to pay much attention to that. Or to the man adding “Of course you and Richard had a good deal in common, embittered men who had lost almost everything you cared about.” He did wake up though, when the man went on “I’ll have to try to find you something better than horse-holding. It’s a waste.” Unfortunately by the time Will had collected his wits to reply the man had gone again.

He came back several days later, just as Will was fighting for control of a rather frisky mare. “Leave that,” he said. “I’ve got a better job.” Agog, Will let go of the mare, who careered down the street snorting. Although he started to have second thoughts once the man described the job. “Billy Fingers needs a good writer in a hurry,” didn’t sound all that promising. Fortunately Fingers himself was a prosperous looking person, the gold chain around his neck going a long way to answer any doubts as to whether he would actually be able to pay. He was frank about his reasons too.

“Tommy was never most reliable guy, so it was my fault for going out on a limb. Then again he seemed serious about this writing gig. So it was quite a blow when he gets religion in a big way with only a few chapters finished, claims he’s being chased by a ghost knight with nothing in the armour, and runs off to Rome to repent his sins. Given Tommy’s list of sins I’m not expecting to see him back inside this century. They didn’t call him Mad Tommy Malory for no reason. But I’m the one left with a bunch of contracts with the booksellers and no writer. There’s Tommy’s outline pitch and the first chapters, but…”

“I’ll do it.” As soon as he’d said it Will started to have second thoughts. After all here he wouldn’t have access to old Hunsdon’s library, or Ricky Field’s back catalogue, or the support of his writers’ circle at the Mermaid. Or Anne.

People tended to think he didn’t appreciate his wife, but he did. True he’d married her for her dowry and she’d married him to get away from housekeeping for her father, but he most certainly didn’t underrate a woman with her plotting skills. Many of the best groundling jokes came from Anne as well. Of course she’d lost a lot of interest after their boy died… frankly he hadn’t known what he was going to do without her help which was one reason why he was in this mess.

“Oh, the library’s no problem,” Billy Caxton said when he voiced some of this. “I bought up Tony Rivers’ books cheap when he was topped. Tony had the reading bug in a big way, so you’ll be well set. And if you can pull it off we’ll both be made. I thought the Royal Interest had died the death with Handsome Eddie, but Harry Tudor’s into Arthur in a big way.”

“Handsome Eddie?” Will said, a bit weakly.

Billy tapped his nose. “Our late King Edward. Handsome Eddie’s what we all called him back in Bruges, in the days when he was down and out and owed me money. Mind you, Eddie and his kid brother weren’t guys to underestimate, even turned out of England and scrapping up soldiers from Charlie the Rash. Shame he let himself go later on. Eddie was into seeing himself as King Arthur. Might have been that Welsh blood he got through the Mortimers, Harry Tudor’s not our first king to fancy himself descended from the old line of Wales you know.”

Will was no great historian, whatever brought in the punters was enough for him, but he had put Edmund Mortimer into one of his plays, so he sort of remembered the York line having a bunch of mad Marcher lords for ancestors. Hadn’t known Edward IV was big on Arthur, but it didn’t matter now. What always mattered for a writer was following the money.

“Well,” said Billy, “Flash Harry – I call Harry Tudor Flash because he isn’t – Flash isn’t one to throw bags of gold around. Our Eddie was more of a spender. But ‘By Royal Appointment’ is always good to advertise with.” And wasn’t that the truth.

Really what could Will say but “I’ll do it.”

Billy hadn’t been lying about the library, which was a good start. All the stories were there, he just had to put them in the right order. And write new words, but that was no problem. He had always been able to write the words. Betareaders weren’t hard to find either, it turned out the print room workers were happy to give a man in the street view. Woman in the street some of them actually. Billy Fingers (and it took less than a minute of watching his hands fly over the print settings for Will to know exactly where that nickname came from) was starting a new industry, and willing to take on anyone who could do the job. Meg and Sukey were brilliant at constructive criticism.

The tournaments were a headache at first. Billy insisted he put a lot of them in, said the average punter always shelled out for a good bit of sport, but Will found them pretty dull. Still once he realised you only had to write about four scenes then repeat them with the names changed around, he was laughing all the way to the Dog and Dragon.

“Good stuff,” Billy said. “We’ll call it _Morte d’Arthur_.”

“He doesn’t die until the end,” Will said.

“Never mind, a death in the title sells,” said Billy and went off to start faking the publication date – something to do with contracts. Will didn’t worry about it. He’d made a down payment on a house in Southwark with the advance money (property values there were really going to boom any decade now) and reckoned he was sitting pretty pretty.

“That’s The Doctor for you,” Billy said with admiration. “The fixer’s fixer.”

“The Doctor!” Will felt profoundly stupid. He spent the whole evening trying to decide what to do, before realising there was nothing he could do. Anyway he was getting on quite nicely in Southwark with Sukey. And Joan. And Adrian.

_Morte d’Arthur_ was a smash. Will would have been lying if he’d said he was pleasantly surprised as he’d always had a high opinion of his own writing skills, but it was certainly pleasant. Still, he couldn’t spend all day counting his money, he was a writer, and a writer needed to write.

“How about a sequel?” said Sukey.

“How’s that going to work?” said Will. “Everyone’s dead. Anyway I can’t do sequels. Never did finish _Love’s Labour’s Won_.”

“Well a prequel then,” said Sukey. “You could write about Arthur’s youth. And put some fairies in, people always like a bit of magic.”

“The market’s glutted. No room for more Arthur right now.”

“Then put it away for a rainy day. It’s not like you’re desperate for the cash.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Will.

Still thinking about it, he dropped into the workshop to see if there was anything new and inspiring hot off the presses, then wished he hadn’t when one of the printers hissed at him that Fork Morton was in the backroom with Billy.

Of course Will knew that Billy wasn’t keen on paying tax, that was why he was domiciled in the Channel Islands these days and hardly ever in the office, there was even a story gone round he’d faked his own death for tax reasons although Will had never seen an obituary so he didn’t really believe it. Anyway it wasn’t his business, except if Fork Morton, the royal tax enforcer, was in there with Billy then it might become his business, because he never had been very careful filling out those self-assessment forms and Morton didn’t have the reputation for giving anyone the benefit of the doubt.

Will was moving in what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner towards the back entrance when there was a lot of shouting from inside and a small black-haired man ran past shouting, “This way, Zoe, we can head the Yeti off at the corner!” Several other people followed, also shouting, then Billy started shouting for an apothecary from inside his office, and when everything was sorted out several hours later Will learned that Fork Morton had died of shock due to a huge hairy monster eating gold guineas in front of him.

Will wasn’t going to shed any tears for Morton, so it only became his business when he got a message four days later that Billy wanted to see him. Turned out Fork hadn’t been there about tax at all, he was negotiating the terms of the contract on his history of Richard III, which his young protégé, Genial Tommy More, now wanted Billy to bring out under his, Tommy More’s, own name.

“Only problem is,” said Billy, “Morton hadn’t written it yet. And Genial Tommy reckons he’s a bit too busy with young Diamond Hal right now to do it himself.”

Will got the point at once. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been hired as ghost writer, though the last time hadn’t been the best experience. That cheapskate De Vere never had paid up. Still, Tommy More wasn’t someone to say no if you could help it.

“Anything to go on?” he said.

“There’s an outline, and Morton’s notes for Tyrell’s confession after his arrest.”

“Tyrell hasn’t been arrested!” said Will, who’d kept an ear on the man’s career, after all Tyrell wasn’t someone he wanted to run into again. He’d avoided the fate that overtook most of Richard’s supporters and got himself nicely dug in as governor of Calais.

“He hasn’t been arrested – yet.” Billy said, pointedly. “Never did like him,” he added.

Will took that point too, and in his opinion Tyrell facing some kind of reckoning was long overdue. As for writing Thomas More’s History of Richard III, he already knew he could do that. He’d written this story once already, hadn’t he, and he knew just how it went.

All the same, he couldn’t resist asking when he turned in the first draft.

“What was Richard like when you knew him?”

“Dicky the Knife?” Billy dropped his voice, even though no-one with their ear to the keyhole was likely to hear anything over the noise of the printroom. “He was all right. Had a temper on him of course, and not a guy you wanted to double cross. But basically he was straight up and down. Devoted to Eddie. But that’s not what Flash Harry’s paying you to write, is it?”

No, it wasn’t. And a good writer always follows the money.

The story changes. The ending stays the same.


End file.
